Mind Games
by truenarnian
Summary: Sequel to Apple of the Private Eye. Mallory believes she's safe and sound after Moriarty took her hostage seven weeks ago. Well, she's half-right: she's safe, but not quite sound. Moriarty left a lasting effect, and Sherlock dedicates every second to helping her. When Sherlock and John need her help, will she be able to overcome both her inner and outer demons? Pre-TRF
1. Prologue

Prologue- Case Closed

I heard the front door open and close, with two sets of footsteps climbing up the stairs. "How did the case go?" I asked, not looking up from my book as the door of the flat opened.

"Too quickly," a deep bass voice replied. With a swish of a heavy black coat, my boyfriend swept past my languid form on the sofa, throwing his coat over the chair by the fire. As Sherlock Holmes strode into his bedroom, eager for his dressing gown, he continued, "Now I have nothing to stimulate my mind."

I looked at John, who had collapsed into the other armchair tiredly. "It was Lucas Mattern—the restaurant owner. He killed James Cartwright, his son-in-law, because James found out that Lucas was using his daughter's bank account as a gambling fund and went to confront him. Mattern, who has already been convicted of domestic abuse, flew off the handle and stabbed Cartwright," he explained.

"Well, from now on, I'm gambling with cheese curls," I said, setting my book down. "You alright, Sherlock?" I called at his shut door.

"Perfectly fine," he replied, opening the door. He peered at me inquisitively and said, "We would have gotten the case solved more quickly if you were there, but you didn't want to come. Why?"

"Look outside!" I exclaimed, gesturing to the night sky visible through our half-parted curtains. "It's pitch black, the dead of winter, and mushy from the snow we've been getting. All you needed was someone else to keep watch over the restaurant, anyway. Excuse me if I chose not to leave my warm, dry, comfortable flat if I didn't have to."

"Yeah, we got back awfully late," John said, catching sight of the oven clock. "Good lord, it's two in the morning. Why'd you stay up so late?"

"I wanted to hear all about the case!" I answered. I neglected to mention the fact that I haven't really been sleeping well for a while and hoped that a late night would tire me out—Sherlock would only worry. "I couldn't _possibly _go to sleep while my brave knights were off fighting the perils of society!" Okay, maybe reading _Don Quixote _for about five hours straight wasn't as good of an idea as it had sounded.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in the slightest of smiles, and John smirked in earnest as he suppressed a yawn. "Oh, it's too late- or early, I guess- for any grand retelling of tales of courage and chivalry," John said. "I'm heading up to bed. You?"

"Yeah, I'm heading down," I replied, closing the heavy book with a satisfying thud. I stood up and began making my way towards Sherlock, the thick tome swinging from my hand, which was cramped from supporting the book for so long. "Goodnight, sweetheart," I said, reaching up to give him a goodnight kiss. As usual, his lips moved only enough to slightly suck on my bottom one, which was as close to the rom-com stereotypical male lead as he got on a daily basis.

"Sweet dreams," he replied in a low voice meant only for me. I vehemently hoped that John had left the room by now. I smiled tiredly at Sherlock, turned around, and made my way back downstairs to flat 221A. Sometimes I forgot I was the owner, with the amount of time I spend with Sherlock and John anyway. I tossed my book onto my sofa, trudged into my bedroom, and went through the motions of getting ready for bed without making any real, conscious effort. As I crawled into bed in an overlarge t-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms, I hoped that Sherlock's bedtime wish for me would actually come true.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1- Subterfuge

_A ball of light hotter than the sun blazed above me, searing my skin so much I wanted to tear it off. I reached up to begin peeling the first layer of my forehead away, except my hands were bound where I couldn't see them. A cold, hard thing that I somehow knew was a gun was pressed against my right temple. When I turned to see who my gunman was, I found a figure who, even though it had no face, I knew was a man, just as certainly as I knew he was the most powerful and wrathful one in the world. Just as certainly as I knew he was my enemy._

_Though he had no face, I knew he was smiling as he pulled the trigger and fired a bullet between my eyes._

I awoke with a start, a great light burning my eyes. At first, I thought it was the scorching fireball in my dream, but then I realized it was just sunlight streaming in through the window whose curtains I had neglected to draw last night. Wiping the light sheen of sweat that had sprung from my forehead, I pulled myself free of the heavy blankets, shrugged on my dressing gown, and sleepily padded to the kitchen—a drink of water was in order after having my wits scared out of me as I slept.

I gulped the water down thirstily, as if I had never drunk anything in my life. Slowly, the hot, sticky aftereffect of nightmares receded. As I poured myself a second glass, I tried to think about when the horrible dreams started. I've been having nightmares for about…two weeks now? Yeah, that sounds about right. These horrible dreams- of which common themes were heat, the bad sort of bondage, and murder- sprang up about a month after Moriarty had kidnapped me, and I haven't gotten a truly decent sleep since. I haven't told anyone—they're only nightmares, I can manage. I'd tell my mother, but she's actually on a six-week-long cruise with a bunch of friends from university. It's about time she got to do something for herself. If I told her over the phone she'd worry herself sick.

As I sipped my third glass, I thought about how distinctly I remembered very much not wanting to leave Baker Street at sunset. I don't exactly know why. Thankfully, years of Yard training helped me come up with a convincing enough reason not to. I really should at least tell John about everything- he is a _doctor, _after all- but they were only stupid nightmares and unwillingness to leave my apartment, right? Trivial.

Having only gotten about five hours of sleep last night, I settled into finishing some arduous paperwork for the Yard—I can be productive while I wait for the boys to wake up, plus it might bore me so much I'll fall asleep again. I flipped my computer open and began working, racking my sleep-deprived brain for details of the case.

John

Having woken up late in the morning, I began making myself some coffee to refresh me after last night's escapades. I found Sherlock already awake, typing away at his laptop.

"Morning," I greeted. He didn't acknowledge me.

"No cases," he grumbled, slamming the laptop closed.

"Well, there's hardly ever one case after the other, is there?" I consoled wearily, pouring the strong black coffee into a mug. Taking a sip, I continued, "You should get a hobby or something to take up the time in between work."

"Why would I do that?" he snapped.

"Because most people do," a tired voice said from our doorway. There stood Mallory, a cotton dressing gown hanging off her shoulders, her frame thinner than usual. She hadn't exactly been eating as well as she usually has, I noticed. She looks pretty tired, too.

"Morning, Mals," I said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," she replied. She's a bad liar.

I decided to let it slide. "Coffee?" I offered, gesturing to the pot. She nodded gratefully, and I continued, "We've got to get him a Rubik's Cube or something to shut him up when we're not on a case."

"Oh, he'd solve a Rubik's Cube in about four seconds," Mallory replied, leaning against the doorjamb. I noticed in her coffee mug the liquid was black, like mine. She hated black coffee.

"Are you…feeling alright?" I asked cautiously.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second and said, "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"You just look a little pale," I replied. It wasn't entirely a lie: there was a definite lightening in the color of her skin.

Mallory shrugged my comment off. "I always pale in winter," she said, downing another gulp of bitter coffee. "I've got some files to complete downstairs. See you later."

"See you," I said to her retreating back. It was silent in our flat until the door to 221A slammed shut.

"There's something wrong with her, Sherlock," I said, planting myself in an armchair. "You know as well as I do that she was lying."

"You see it, too?" Sherlock said, with an air of relieved curiosity. "Good. I thought I was just being…worrisome. Paranoid. Overprotective."

"You thought you were just being a boyfriend," I corrected.

"Is that what it feels like?" he said, still with that curious tone. He chuckled with almost no humor. "Never anticipated _these _feelings."

Trying to get us back on track, I repeated, "Mallory was lying to us, Sherlock. She's never lied to us before. _Ever. _Something's got to be wrong."

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. There was something gratifying in the fact that Sherlock needed help in the realm of relationships. "Do you think she's hiding some sort of illegal activity from us?"

"…No," I said after a pause. "She was pale, she hasn't been sleeping well—if she were doing something of her own will, she wouldn't be so worried. No, there's something she can't control, and she's scared."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because she's been in the Yard long enough to know how to run a secret drug, smuggling, and prostitution ring and get away with it. Either that or she knows you well enough not to even try. She wouldn't be worried."

"So what could be worrying her?" Sherlock asked. I had no answer.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- The Sergeant's Plague

Mallory

Later that day, I had collapsed onto the couch after a lack of sleep and a long trip to the grocery store had tired me out. Sherlock was experimenting on the kitchen table (actually _on _it—I was too exhausted to yell at him for seeing how quickly different acids could burn through the tabletop) and John was writing up the latest case on his blog. I remembered feeling incredibly content as I slowly fell to sleep, Sherlock dragging a heavy blanket over me when my eyes were too heavy to open. I might have even fallen asleep with a smile on my face.

_Blood was pouring out of my mouth in a never-ending torrent. It washed over my hands, which were bound with handcuffs so hot they left red welts in my skin. The same faceless gunman stood in front of my hunched, kneeling figure, laughing at my agony. I looked up at him, and suddenly two black eyes had appeared on his face, eyes that had never held any emotion and never will. I wanted so badly for him to shoot me._

_Suddenly, I heard somebody calling my name, the sound coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The faceless gunman and I looked around, trying to find the speaker. Suddenly, the world gave an almighty lurch, _and I woke up.

"Mallory!" Sherlock was saying, large hands on my upper arms. He must have been shaking me awake. My heart was racing, pounding right out of my chest, and there was a sticky layer of sweat on my palms and temples. One of my hands slid over the side of Sherlock's face and held it as I tried to slow my breathing down. I was looking at those clear green eyes, but I wasn't really seeing them: the terror of my horrible dream was still fresh in my mind.

"It's okay, Mallory, I'm here," Sherlock soothed, perching on the edge of the sofa. "I'm right here."

"Thanks for waking me." I tried to control my ragged, frantic breathing, and failed. "Oh, God, that was so scary."

"It looked like it. You were beginning to twitch. But you're okay now." He kissed me on the forehead soothingly. "I'll get you some water. If there's anything you want to tell me, go ahead. I'm listening."

Sherlock was being the kindest, warmest, most comforting boyfriend anyone could've asked for—but I still couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth. As he got up and began bustling around in the kitchen, I said, "I think I might be catching something. Couple headaches, couple nightmares. Maybe it's the flu."

"John should check up on you," Sherlock said, sitting back down on the sofa and giving me a glass of cool water. I sipped it as he continued, "If it's been going on for a while now…" I didn't dare tell him how long it's been going on. I nodded, and he stood up, going into the other bedroom to explain the situation to John.

John

I had just finished writing out our last case (entitled "The Gambler's Last Morning") when Sherlock strode into the room purposefully. He sat down in a chair across from me, with a look so serious he might've been telling me I was about to die.

"Mallory's been having nightmares," he said without preamble. "Bad ones. She was sweating, shaking, and having very rapid eye movements while she slept. She says it's been going on for a bit."

I immediately closed the laptop. "Did she say what they were about?"

"No. She thinks it might be the flu." He and I shared a look that said we both knew it wasn't influenza. "Can you examine her? Please?" I was about to say that she would probably just need some cold medicine and some rest; but I saw the look on his face, a look of barely-controlled worry. You could see the growing panic deep in his eyes, and the slight twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

I got up from my lounging position on the bed and said, "Let's go."

We came into the sitting room, where Mallory had wrapped a heavy blanket around herself and was sipping a glass of water. Her hair was slightly tangled from her short nap. Sherlock guided her to one of the armchairs where there was more light as I pulled a wooden chair around from the kitchen in front of her.

"Hey, John," Mallory croaked out.

"Hey," I replied. "So, Sherlock thinks you should be checked out by a doctor. May I examine you?"

"Yeah, go ahead," she said. I gently took her hand and turned her wrist up, delicately pressing two fingers into the skin for her pulse—regular. Her temperature was normal as well. It was when I was checking her eyes that we found out what was really going on.

I had pulled a tiny penlight from my pocket and shined it into one of her eyes. Instead of blinking confusedly, her eyes flew wide open, and she scrambled backwards, away from the light, and over the back of the chair. She hit the floor with a loud _thud._

"Mals?" I asked in alarm. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock hurried to her side in a manner I've never seen in him before and began helping her up caringly. "What happened, Mallie?" he asked.

Mallory's eyes went even wider in pure, blatant fear. She looked at Sherlock with such undisguised terror it was as if he had suddenly sprouted fangs and a forked tongue. She became greatly agitated and abandoned Sherlock's help, rocketing to her feet. She backed away from him as if he were her worst childhood nightmare.

"That's what he called me," she whispered, horrified.

Sherlock shot to his feet and stared at her almost helplessly. "Mallory!" he said, stepping towards her. In a flash, she had turned around to the mantle of the fireplace, pulled the switchblade from its place pinning down papers, and whipped back around. By then, Sherlock had gotten so close to her that the tip of the knife sliced a thin, shallow cut across his cheek.

Mallory stared at the knife in horror, at the tiny triangle of red on the very tip of the blade. Her eyes flicked from the switchblade to Sherlock's cut in disbelieving self-revulsion. Her white-knuckle grip on the knife's handle slackened, and the switchblade clattered to the floor almost unnoticed. She stumbled backwards, hit the wall, and slid down to the floor, that horrified disbelief etched into her face. She was looking up at Sherlock in fearful apology, drawing her knees up to her chest. I've never seen her more vulnerable in the time I've known her.

Slowly, I walked towards her and knelt down to her level. "Mallory, look at me," I said. She turned her fearful blue eyes on mine and I continued, "Everything is _all right. _You're is safe. I'm safe. No one is going to hurt you." After what I just saw, I had an idea of what Mallory's affliction might be, but I needed to calm her down enough to be sure.

"I can't believe I hurt him," she whispered. "Why did I hurt him?"

"It wasn't your fault," I soothed. Gently, I took her hands and slowly helped her up, pulling her into a sheltering embrace. As I guided her to the sofa, I caught a look at Sherlock. He stood motionlessly, with a few tiny trickles of blood sliding down his face. He was looking at Mallory the same way Mallory had looked at him—fearful horror. But it was somehow different on him: Mallory was afraid because she'd hurt Sherlock, and she hated herself for it; Sherlock was afraid because Mallory was severely unwell, and it was killing him that he didn't know how to help.

After I carefully set Mallory onto the sofa and pulled the kitchen chair around, I found Mals looking at Sherlock helplessly, and it was enough to snap him out of his confusion—he settled himself on the sofa and folded Mallory into his side. Mals reached a hand up and lightly touched the thin, no-longer-bleeding cut, earning the slightest of winces from Sherlock. When she saw him cringe, more guilt leaked onto her face, and Sherlock, having seen her expression, softened his own and whispered, "It's okay. You didn't mean it."

Whatever you might say about Sherlock, you can't say he doesn't care.

"What's happening to me, John?" Mallory pleaded when she turned to me, eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock tightened his hold on her and pulled her closer, silently begging me for a diagnosis that would explain everything. I was pretty sure I had it.

"I think it might be Acute Stress Disorder," I said. "ASD for short. It's a less permanent form of PTSD."

"'Less permanent'?" Sherlock repeated, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"Yeah. It usually doesn't last for more than a month after an exceptionally traumatic event—in your case, when Moriarty took you hostage."

"But it's been longer than a month!" Sherlock snapped. "It's been seven weeks!"

"Seven weeks since my kidnapping, but only about two since the nightmares started," Mallory explained, staring at a spot on the wall. "But I thought people got ASD right after the trauma. I've come across the disorder in a few cases."

"Most people do get it immediately after they're traumatized," I said. "But sometimes, people who deal with a lot of trauma and grief because of their occupation, like doctors or police officers, can hold it off for a while. And God knows how much shit the three of us get into—that's probably why it didn't manifest itself until now."

"So I've held it off because I'm…used to it?" Mallory said slowly. I nodded. "God, that's horrible."

"People with ASD can sometimes react violently to people or objects that force them to remember that trauma," I continued. "You had a big spotlight hanging over your head for eight hours that Sherlock made explode—that's why you got so scared when I shined the light in your eyes. That's probably why you haven't really gone outside after sunset, too. If it's dark out, the cars need to use their headlights, and you didn't want all those lights shining at you."

"And when Sherlock called me Mallie," she said, forcing the nickname out through her teeth, "I freaked because that's what Moriarty called me."

"The nightmares are also symptoms of ASD," I said. "Sometimes flashbacks—"

"How do we treat it?" Sherlock interrupted.

"A lot of times, ASD will resolve itself after a month," I explained patiently. "But it can also grow into post-traumatic stress disorder." Mallory grew alarmed.

"Is it either or?" she asked.

"Yes, but I don't think you'll develop PTSD_. _You see, doctors can usually predict if ASD will escalate by sort of…throwing patients into situations where they think they're in danger. Putting them under stress, and seeing how they react, is a good way of predicting whether or not the disorder will mature. Considering the fact that you held ASD off for more than a month and continued to serve as a sergeant of the Scotland Yard without being affected by the disorder, I think there's a very good chance it'll fade over a bit of time."

Mallory drew a shaky breath. "Thanks, John. You have no idea how much this explains."

"I'll call Lestrade and see about getting you some sick leave," I said, getting up. "I'll call your mother, too."

"No!" Mallory exclaimed. "She's not coming back for three weeks. The most it'll take me to get through this is two. She's stuck on a cruise ship and she'll make herself sick with worry."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She nodded. "Absolutely." I glanced at Sherlock, who sent me a look that plainly said _Just listen to her._

I nodded and said, "Try to get some rest—the key to getting rid of ASD is relaxation." So she would have quiet, I left 221B and made my way down the stairs, sitting on a step halfway down.

Lestrade picked up after three rings. "Afternoon, John. What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk about Mallory."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3- Consolation

Mallory

I sat silently, wrapped in Sherlock's embrace, listening to his breathing and feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Now that we had put a name to my plague, I felt at least a little better.

"Why didn't you tell us what was going on?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.

Oh, here the crushing guilt comes back.

"I didn't think it was anything serious," I replied quietly. "And it didn't seem like something worth bothering you about."

"Oh, Mallory," Sherlock said, in a voice laced with guilt, "Please, _always _tell me about things like that. Having nightmares for two weeks and being afraid to go outside after dark is something worth telling us about." Sitting there in Sherlock's arms and listening to his reassurances was wonderful; I've never felt more protected and safe. And like I completely screwed up.

"How could I have gotten this?" I asked. "I'm a bobby, I chase down murderers for a living; I should be used to this! For God's sake, Sherlock, you and John are threatened and shot at every day, and you two are fine!" I looked up at him, begging for an answer. "How much weaker am I than you and John?"

"Don't say that!" he pleaded, his face pained. "Remember, John was trained as a doctor and used to seeing dead bodies and parts before he went to Afghanistan, and he _still _came back with nightmares and a limp. The only reason I'm sane is because…because I can look at a criminal and anticipate what he's doing, and I can prepare myself for that or stop it altogether. As for you…we've already met Moriarty, and we've discovered just how dangerous he is. Getting kidnapped and deliberately placed in a stressful situation on its own is bad enough, but by a man we know as the most powerful criminal in the world? I'm surprised you staved the ASD off for so long. It isn't a question of strength and character, Mallory, it's a question of what you were facing." He slid his hand over the side of my face, gently cupping my cheek. "Let's get you to sleep; you must be exhausted."

"No, the nightmares will come," I begged. "Don't make me sleep."

"I'll stay with you," he swore. "All night if I have to." Together, we rose from the sofa and padded into his bedroom, where he gently settled me onto the bed. "I'll tell John we're getting some rest," he said, kissing my forehead and leaving the room. I kicked off my boots and shed my jumper, leaving me in a long-sleeved t-shirt and comfortable jeans. I burrowed under the heavy blankets and took a hearty sniff; the bed smelled like laundry detergent and tea and _him. _I reached up to pull my hair tie out and combed through my long brown locks with my fingers—it was a nervous habit I had had when I was little. Soon enough, Sherlock had come back in, a Band-Aid covering his cut and a folded-up pair of my sweatpants in his hands.

"I thought these would be more comfortable for you," he said, placing the sweats on a swell of blanket next to me. "I'll leave and let you change."

"No, hang on," I said, reaching under the covers to undo my jeans. I slipped them and my socks off, sliding them out from under the blankets and onto the floor. I reached for the sweats and pulled them on, all while keeping anything below my ribcage beneath the covers. "I'm ready."

Sherlock slipped off his shoes and suit jacket and asked, "Would you be comfortable with me under the covers?"

"Of course," I said hoarsely. Sherlock lifted the corner of the blanket and slipped into bed, pulling me into him and wrapping me in warmth. I ran my fingertips lightly over the bandage on his face. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be," Sherlock replied, his voice just as low. "You were disoriented and scared, and I triggered your reaction accidentally. It wasn't your fault." He pulled me closer to him, cradling me like a beloved stuffed animal. His chin rested on my head; my face was nestled into his shoulder. His arms cocooned me in security and protection as we shared each other's oxygen and warmth.

It was the deepest I slept in two weeks.

I woke up, feeling incredibly well rested. The nightmares hadn't come last night. I gently shifted my limbs around, trying to huddle into Sherlock's warmth—but I soon discovered he wasn't there. His pillow was empty of his head and his dressing gown was absent from the hook. I struggled into a sitting position out of the blankets carefully tucked around me, causing the bed to creak a bit. As if summoned by the bedspring's aches, Sherlock appeared in the doorway, carrying a steaming mug.

"Apologies," he said, coming to sit on the bed. "I only got up to make you some hot chocolate."

I smiled tiredly. "Thank you, love," I said sincerely, accepting the mug. The hot, sweet liquid burned my throat as I drank it, but it was a good kind of burn. "What time is it?"

"Just after ten," Sherlock replied. "You slept well."

"It's the best sleep I've had in a while." I tried to comb my hair through my fingers, but they got caught in some tightly-knotted tangles. "Ugh, I must look disgusting. I'm sorry you had to wake up to this."

"Don't be," Sherlock said simply. "What do you want to do today?"

I thought for a moment, but then realized that what I really wanted had been sitting right in front of me the whole time. "Can you and me and John spend the rest of the day together, just in 221B?"

"Well, John has to work at the hospital until nine tonight," Sherlock answered, "but you and I are free. John managed to get you off work for the next two weeks. Oh, John's contacted a specialist from the hospital to examine you and make sure his diagnosis was correct. He'll be coming tomorrow."

"So we have the rest of the day?"

"Yes."

I smiled gently. "Excellent. Let me shower and get myself together, though. I feel disgusting. How do movies sound? Oh, a Harry Potter marathon would be fantastic."

Sherlock returned my smile. "I look forward to it."

I ran my fingers over the skinny bandage that covered the even-slimmer cut I had sliced into his angular face. It wasn't so much a trigger of fear or horror now, but more like a reminder why I had to get better. I pressed my lips to his (careful not to open my mouth and release my morning breath) and slowly climbed out of bed, so I didn't spill the hot chocolate over the blankets. I padded out of 221B, down the stairs, and into my own flat, chugging the rest of the chocolate on the way. As I entered my bathroom, stripped down, and turned on my shower, I marveled at how simply Sherlock can showcase his humanity. It was quite the transformation.

When I emerged from my bedroom clad in purple flannel pyjamas, fuzzy socks, and a fluffy white robe, the first thing I smelled was popcorn. I soon identified the source: Sherlock was ripping open a bag of it and pouring it into a glass bowl in my kitchen. When he turned around and spotted me in the doorway, he said, "I thought it would be best to watch the movies here—all your DVDs are here, and your sofa is more comfortable anyway."

I smiled and entered my kitchen, pulling two bottles of Coca-Cola from my refrigerator. Together, we walked back into my living room and I plopped onto the couch as Sherlock descended to my Blu-Ray player and inserted _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone._

"They're all so adorable in the first one," I said as Sherlock settled onto the sofa next to me. I unscrewed the cap of my Coke bottle and took a swig as the previews came on, curling into Sherlock's side. His arm draped around my shoulders and he pulled the popcorn bowl toward us, the heavenly smell filling our noses.

That's how we spent nearly an entire week—I would wake up in the morning, curled into Sherlock's body like a stuffed animal, and then we'd watch daytime telly or more of my movies together. At first, we'd clean up the detritus we left from the day's lazing: popcorn bags, fleece blankets, dirty napkins. But as the days progressed, we simply ceased to care about the layer of trash building up in my flat.

It was the most human I've ever seen Sherlock, and the most dependent on him I've ever been.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Milestones

John

After a long day at work, I came back home to find the door to Mallory's flat ajar and her living room in disarray: there were soda bottles all over the floor, stacks of DVD cases on every surface, and bags of popcorn clogging her waste bin. I stepped inside the flat just enough to see Sherlock _carrying_ Mallory into her bedroom, her long brown hair swinging with his strides. After a moment or two, he emerged from her room and closed the door quietly, catching sight of me halfway over the threshold.

"Had a day in again?" I asked quietly, so as not to disturb Mals' slumber.

He nodded. "Relaxation is the best healing technique for temporary mental stress disorders," he replied in a low voice. "It's best to get as much as possible."

I gestured to the movie cases on the table. "Movie marathon today?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes."

"I'll help you clean up," I offered, bending low to pick up a few stray popcorn kernels. Slowly and quietly, Sherlock and I worked our way around Mals' living room, trying not to cause too much noise when we crushed the empty plastic soda bottles. A few minutes passed, the silence punctuated only by our footsteps and the crunching of popcorn bags, when I decided to break it.

"You really…_dove _into looking after Mals," I said, breaking the quietness. I had noticed how Sherlock seemed to have completely embraced the average woman's idea of a perfect boyfriend: he was caring, gentle, and always there for Mallory when she needed him. It was amazing how he could go from this cold, indifferent, deducing machine to…well, Ryan Gosling in _The Notebook _(Sarah had made me watch it). It was amazing to observe.

"Well, I needed to," Sherlock answered simply as he re-shelved DVDs. "She needed my help. It's partly my fault she _has _the ASD, anyway."

I nearly dropped the bottle cap I'd been cramming into the bin. "What? Sorry, _what?_ Come again?"

"Moriarty kidnapped her because he sees me as a distraction for his boredom," he replied. "A source of entertainment. He loves to watch me scramble to save his targets. Putting the woman I harbored feelings for in danger added a bit more excitement than usual." He paused and looked away reflectively. "He threatened her because of what she meant to me. It was my fault he was drawn to her in the first place."

I was at a loss for words, but if I had any adequate enough to sum up my reaction, they'd be angry. I saw the heartbreaking look on his face: he genuinely held himself responsible for Mallory's disorder. "Out in the hall," I ordered, pointing to the doorway. This might get loud.

Surprised, Sherlock followed my command and crossed the room, while I followed suit. When we were both in the front hall, I quietly closed Mals' front door and rounded on Sherlock. "Are you fucking joking?"

Sherlock was so appalled at my reaction I would have found it funny in different circumstances. I continued, "Do you really blame yourself for what Moriarty did to her? It's because of _him _Mallory has the ASD, because _he_ decided to hurt somebody for a lark. None of what he did was your fault, Sherlock—he's _insane_, I would have thought you'd realize that by now! _He _caused this, not you."

"He still shouldn't have come anywhere near her," Sherlock rebutted. "I lured him _to _her! Anything I do puts her in danger!"

"She knew that anything you do, anyone you associate with, puts her at risk from_ the day she met you_, Sherlock," I interrupted vehemently. "Just like I did. And she was brave enough to accept that risk and let herself fall in love with you. Hell, by that logic, you could say it's her own fault—"

Sherlock seized the front of my jacket and slammed me into the wall, glaring at me with a passionate hate the likes of which I hadn't believed him capable. "Don't you _ever _say it's her fault," he said angrily, forcing the words out through his teeth.

"Then don't say it's yours," I replied, just as venomously.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from Mallory's room, and we instantly forgot our standoff and rushed in together (the last time we heard a crash and didn't have Mallory in sight didn't go so well). She was awake and breathing heavily, eyes darting around with fear. On the floor lay a shattered glass in a puddle of water. Mals' arm was held out at an awkward angle over her night stand—she must've knocked the glass over in her sleep.

"Mallory, Mallory, Mallory," I chanted soothingly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's okay. It was just a nightmare. You're alright." Below the edge of the bed, Sherlock was carefully gathering up the shards of glass into his palm.

"It was another one," Mallory said. "Another nightmare."

"That's just it: a nightmare," I said calmingly. Sherlock had left the room to throw the broken glass out, and once I was sure Mals would be alright, I stood up and ducked into her bathroom. Too hurried to properly look, I yanked the hand towel from the rod and hurried back into the room, mopping up the puddle of water.

After a minute or two, Sherlock swooped back into the room, silhouetted against the brighter light in the hall and carrying a large, oddly-shaped object in one hand and a long, thin rod in the other. I recognized the strange object as his precious violin when he stepped out of the doorway and raised it to his chin. He wanted to play her a lullaby so she would sleep.

And he says he doesn't have a heart.

"Sweet dreams, Mals," I said, hugging her goodnight.

"See you in the morning," she mumbled back. We separated, and I left the room, Sherlock perching on the edge of the bed. As I climbed the stairs to 221B, I heard sweet, melodic violin music resonate throughout the house, music that spoke of comfort and sleep and peace and love.

Mallory

I lay back and listened to Sherlock play his violin, the beautiful melody surrounding me and lulling me to the land of sweet dreams. After a while, Sherlock ceased his musical sorcery and lay down next to me, wrapping an arm around me as he had last night and keeping me safe.

"I love you and your music," I said sleepily, maneuvering closer to his head to kiss him.

Sherlock kissed back, his lips supple against mine. "I'll call it Mallory's Lullaby," he mumbled against my mouth.

Our kisses grew more assertive, more aggressive: his arm tightened around my back and I could have sworn he tried to drag me on top of him before realizing what he was attempting to do. My hands slid up to his head and combed through his hair, and one of my legs somehow found itself between both of his. I felt the need to become one grow stronger as I pressed my body into his, and apparently he felt it, too: one of his large hands slid down my side and squeezed my left buttock. I squeaked involuntarily and rolled on top of Sherlock in earnest, both of his arms becoming iron rails around me. I planted little kisses, moving away from his mouth, migrating down his jaw, and coming to a stop by sucking the soft skin of his throat. A deep, staccato moan slipped past his lips as I shifted my leg a bit—_ah, yes, there it is._

"M-Mallory," he stuttered. I lifted my head from his neck, wondering what on Earth could be wrong. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

"I couldn't be more," I replied. "Are _you _sure?"

"I _want _to," he said. "It's just…" He shook his head ever so slightly, a tiny bit of apprehension creeping into his face. "I've never done this before."

"Don't be afraid," I said. "Leave everything to me."

His eyes changed, almost like they refocused upon my face as his hand came up to the back of my neck and pulled my mouth down to his, our lips crashing together.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- The Game Begins

I woke up surrounded by pure bliss, the warmth of Sherlock's skin searing my own. I opened my eyes slowly, trying to savor the moment. Sunlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains, our naked bodies were pressed together under the sheets, and I was using his bare chest as a pillow. His arm snaked around my waist and held me in place as I listened to his heartbeat and felt the rise and fall of his chest.

As I said, _bliss._

Leisurely, I craned my neck to check if Sherlock had awoken yet and found him gazing back at me, a touch of warmth to his usual cold stare. "Good morning, love," he said, his other hand coming around to a loose strand of hair that had fallen over my eyes. He wound it between his long, white fingers, gazing into my eyes almost…lovingly.

"Good morning," I replied in sleepy happiness, inching closer to kiss him. "Sorry about the morning breath," I muttered.

"Quite a night we had, wasn't it?" he mumbled back as our lips parted. I rested my head on his shoulder. God, I could stare at those eyes all day.

"You sure had some moves for a bloke who's never had sex before." I peered up at him, playfully suspicious. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I just had an excellent partner," he replied.

I rolled over onto my stomach and propped myself up slightly to look him properly in the eyes. "Look at you, all…Hugh Grant, and a little Fred Astaire," I said proudly. When my comment was greeted by confusion, I elaborated, "A womanizer, Sherlock. You're a womanizer."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock admonished. "I'm no 'womanizer'. I just happen to think of things that you would like to hear, and then I say them."

"You are _so _a ladies' man," I said, inching up to kiss him again. When we separated, I moved away and crawled out of bed, shrugging into my dressing gown. "D'you want me to run upstairs and grab you some clothes?"

"No, your bed sheet will do," he said, sliding the rest of my blankets off my bed and wrapping the sheet around himself.

"I'm going to shower. See you later?" I said.

"Of course," he replied.

When I stepped into the shower, I had no idea how drastically the day would decline.

Once I'd showered, dressed, and brushed my teeth, I trekked upstairs to see where Sherlock had gotten himself to.

"Sherlock?" I called out, weaving through the doorways of 221B. When I got to his bedroom door (slightly ajar), I began wondering if he had just left to go on a case or something. My bed sheet was crumpled on the floor where he had discarded it to dress (evidenced by the pair of hangers lying on the bed and the pair of shoes missing from the bottom of his wardrobe). "Sherlock, where are you?"

I turned around to go through his wardrobe when I found a hastily folded-up note resting on his bedside table. Curiously, I unfolded the notebook paper (which still had the frills on the edge) and read the scrawling chicken scratch that barely passed for handwriting on the inside.

_We have Holmes. We're going for Watson._

I didn't realize I was ripping holes in the paper until my fingernails were digging into my palm.

_A note was taped to my computer screen…_No, no flashbacks. I can't afford them now. I flew out of his room and out of 221B, nearly falling down the stairs with my speed. John had already gone to work, and if he's already at the surgery, there was a chance he was alright…

I lunged for my mobile phone, which was sitting on my coffee table in my flat. Thanking God that I had had the foresight of putting John in my Emergency Contacts, I hit the Call button and put the phone to my ear, which picked up after a single ring.

"John! Thank God—"

_"We have Holmes and Watson. Do not try to contact them."_

Despite the blood pounding in my ears, I was sure my heart had stopped.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my mind instantly kicking into Scotland Yard mode. "Why have you taken them?"

_"They put our father in prison,"_ said the scratchy, mysterious voice on the other end. _"They deserve to be punished."_

"Where are they? As an officer of Scotland Yard, I order you to divulge that information!" A click, and the line went dead.

I jabbed the End Call button and hurled my phone at the wall, where the back covering came off and the battery slid out. First I was kidnapped, now my best mate and the man I loved? _There must be a curse on Baker Street, _I thought as I dove to the ground to repair my phone. Once it was alive and shining, I quickly dialed the number of one of the men I trusted most. "Lestrade! Listen to me, I need your help."

John

I blinked blearily awake, a warm, sticky substance running unpleasantly from my temple to my chin. I tried recalling everything I could up to this moment: I had gotten out of the cab right in front of work, a woman had looped her arm through mine and led me around the hospital to alley behind it, chatting animatedly…I was too bewildered and taken by surprise to respond right away…and then two men had suddenly appeared from behind us…the woman wrenched her arm from mine and moved out of the way…and then something rough and solid hit me on the side of the head…

I took a deep breath, and the dry, stuffy tang of London traffic invaded my mouth. My arm jerked up instinctively to wipe my lips, but it was impeded by thick, coarse rope, binding it in place to the arm of my wooden chair. My waist and other arm were tied in a similar manner.

"Your boyfriend isn't here," a cool female voice said. There was the sound of high-heeled shoes on concrete, and soon a woman had emerged into my field of vision, her red hair tied into a large bun. "He's busy answering to my…collaborators."

I knew this woman…aha! "You're Deborah Cartwright—Lucas Mattern's daughter and James Cartwright's widow! We were investigating your husband's death last week!"

"You were," Cartwright said airily. "And then you got my father _arrested,_" she snapped.

"He was stealing from your bank account," I said. Was she seriously unhappy that we stopped her father from using her money to gamble without her knowing?

"I _knew _he was!" she exclaimed. "I let him do so! My father was an idiot, he let you get him in thirty-six hours—do you _really_ think he could steal from me and get away with it? No, I knew he was stealing from me, but I let him take the money—I was a good daughter, and that's what good daughters do."

_ "He killed your husband!"_ I yelled. I hated being so brash, but now was not the time for manners. "Why the hell would you break the law to pay honor to the man who killed the one you loved?!"

_"Loved?_ Ha!" Cartwright guffawed. "I never loved James. He was nice enough, but a total bore and horrifically terrible in the bedroom. But he was a hopeless romantic, and easy enough to reel in. Then it was just a matter of building up his insurance value and letting my father get him. Oh, I should never have trusted dear old Dad—the idiot forgot the gloves at home and got his greasy fingerprints all over the crime scene."

"And you're doing this to…avenge your father?"

"He's all I had, and you took him away from me," she snarled. "The least I could do was return the favor and equate your pain and suffering to mine. Separating you two lovebirds seemed like the first step."

I was in no mood to joke. "Where have you taken us?"

Cartwright smirked. "Oh, he was right, this would be fun."

Mallory

"Sergeant Hudson!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking up from his computer monitor. "What are you doing here?"

"Sherlock and John," I answered simply.

Lestrade got up from his desk. "Yeah, you explained that when you phoned, but I still don't understand why you're _here._" He glanced at his office's open door behind me and lowered his voice. "You're suffering from a bottled-up stress disorder, Hudson. The last place you should be right now is the only place in London completely centered around crime!"

"And letting me worry at home about them is a better option?" I retorted. "If I'm not in on the action, I'm just going to constantly be phoning you and asking if you've gotten any closer. I agree, the rescue mission would be stressful, but waiting on the sidelines would be debilitating. You know me, Greg; you know that's true. _Please, _despite the disorder, let me work this rescue."

He sighed. "I am of the opinion that you _absolutely _should work this case—"

"Great!"

"_However, _this is your best friend and your lover who have been taken! It still represents a conflict of interest. The law requires that I bar you from taking part in the investigation."

"Aughh!" I sunk into the office chair. Could I have no luck? If I participated in the rescue, then I could cost myself my job, Lestrade his credibility, and the Yard an excellent officer (if I do say so myself). What can I do?

There was silence until Lestrade broke it with a seemingly-unnecessary sentence.

"Sherlock is one of the most important people to the Yard," he stated thoughtfully. "The number of murderers he's put away is probably greater than the sum of the entire Yard put together."

I was in no mood for this. "Your point?"

"Well, if we declare his kidnapping a national emergency," he said slowly, "I could order an all-hands-on-deck approach. Conflicts of interest wouldn't matter."

I sat up. "He _is _an integral part of Scotland Yard's inner workings, sir."

Lestrade drew himself up to his full height. "That settles it. The city of London is now in a state of emergency. Every available officer of the Yard should devote their efforts to the rescue of Sherlock Holmes—but we'll just conveniently forget to tell them about it."

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, trying to keep the grateful smile off my face. "Internal Affairs won't be kind to you."

"Yeah, I know," he replied. "But it's either that or losing two of the best crime-solvers to ever help the Yard."

I smiled proudly. Lestrade wasn't as incompetent as Sherlock thought.

I'll be sure to tell him that when we get him and John back.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6- A Telephonic Interrogation

John

"Where have you taken Sherlock?!" I demanded, staring resolutely into Cartwright's face.

She absently picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her long sleeve, purple like the rest of her outfit. "He's getting his prescribed treatment now," she said, a certain color to her voice that told me she was trying to project carelessness but was having too much fun to fully hide it. This woman was _mad,_ but she might have once been as sane as I.

"'Prescribed treatment'?" I repeated. "Are you a doctor?"

Cartwright's calculating smile was stuck in place, but some of her insane happiness vanished from her hazel eyes. "I was once," she said. I had thought so—who ever uses doctor's terminology to create a metaphor for torture? Someone familiar with the language of medicine.

"I'm a doctor," I appealed. Maybe if I could get her to sympathize with me, Sherlock and I could escape. "I used to be an army doctor."

"Did you really?" she said, feigning curiosity. "That's a shame."

Not the response I expected, needless to say. "Why?"

Cartwright smiled her ruthless, insane grin again. "Since you're so used to blood and gore, it'll be less of a traumatic reaction when you see your friend again."

Mallory

"Rankin, you ready?" Lestrade asked. Danny Rankin, one of Scotland Yard's numerous tech geniuses, nodded.

"Ready to begin the call track!" Danny replied, shooting me a thumbs-up. Lestrade stood behind him, watching the computer screen over his shoulder. I'd managed to convince Danny to help us trace a call I would be making momentarily to John's mobile—if the criminals answered it once before, maybe they would again. "Ready, Mals?"

"Ready!" I replied, pulling out my mobile phone. I dialed John's number, and with one last reassuring glance at Danny and Lestrade, hit the Call button.

They picked up after two rings.

_"Who is this?"_ a woman's voice barked. I swallowed my surprise (exactly how many people were involved in this now?) and began my interrogation.

"Where are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

A pause on the other end. _"Oh, it's the famed Sergeant Hudson of Baker Street. We've heard about you."_

"Have you now?" I retorted. I decided to throw them a bone—if they wanted to play games, pass me the dice. "Pray tell me what you've heard."

_"Only your reputation,"_ the simpering voice answered. _"But what a reputation it is. Were you really able to track down a murderer using only his Twitter account?"_

I smiled against my will—that was one of the first cases I had worked when I had been promoted to Sergeant. One of my fonder memories. "I had help," I replied.

_"Still, you managed to catch him, and that's what's important."_

"You know what else is important? Assurance of your hostages' safety," I snapped. "Tell me where they are and we can cut some kind of deal with you."

_"I'm not interested in deals, _Sergeant," she spat. _"I'm interested in my vengeance."_

"Vengeance?" I glanced at Danny and Lestrade, the former typing lightning-fast and the latter listening in on my call via a large pair of headphones. How were they getting on?

_"These two…_vigilantes _got my father arrested not too long ago. My father was always an honorable man, and now they've gone and dirtied his reputation. It's now as filthy as yours is clean."_ Each word was dripping with so much contempt the mobile was almost coated in it.

"What did your father do?" If she could organize such a well-planned revenge, it must've been something bad. But I could still try. "We could probably find a way to reduce his sentence. Give us the hostages and we could work something out with your father, depending on what he was convicted for."

_"He hasn't been convicted yet!"_ she snapped. Good—I had somehow offended her and it was making her lose her cool. _"How dare you? He's only just been arrested, you stupid bitch!"_

"He's only been _arrested?"_ I repeated. "Even for a vengeful daughter, you move fast."

_"We've—had—help!"_ she snarled out, enunciating every word. _"You really think my brothers and I could organize a kidnapping this quickly? We have a double deal—he came to us with a plan and we put it into action. And now everyone concerned is reaping the reward."_

"Who is your partner?" I demanded, taking advantage of the fissure in her coolly-superior tone.

_"I'm not answering any more of your questions, Sergeant,"_ she said, anger coloring her voice. _"Don't try to contact us again. If we receive one more call from you, one of the hostages gets a bullet in the brain. Goodbye, Sergeant Hudson."_


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7- The Tunnel Under the Thames

"Wait—" Too late. The phone clicked off, and the line went dead. I swiveled toward Danny and Lestrade, waiting for their confirmation of tracking down her signal. Danny's long fingers, which had been typing furiously for nearly the entire call, suddenly froze, eyes darting over the computer screen.

"Well?" I said, breaking the tense silence.

"Oh, my God," Danny said.

"Now is not the time to marvel at our computer system, Rankin," Lestrade said.

"It's not that!" Danny replied, seemingly awed by something. "It's the kidnappers! They're absolutely _genius_!"

"Danny!" I nearly yelled.

"They're in Rotherhithe Tunnel!" he exclaimed. "They're somewhere in Rotherhithe Tunnel!"

"Good Lord," I said incredulously. "How stupid could they get?" Hiding in the middle of a public tunnel which ran under the Thames and was only twenty minutes from Scotland Yard? They're either incredibly arrogant or incredibly dense—possibly both.

"That's what's so incredible!" Danny exclaimed. "No one in their right mind would hide there because it's so risky and exposed, which is why the Yard would bypass it as a hiding place, which is why it's such a good one!"

"Come on, then," Lestrade said. "A tunnel that long will need a search party to properly look for them. We need to start getting one together."

"Sir, with your permission I'd like to go ahead of the Yard and scout the tunnel," I said quickly, before Lestrade could say anything else.

He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. "Take Sergeant Minksop with you—you're still technically partners and you need one on this."

"Yes, sir!" I nodded, turned on my heel, and left the room, searching for Donna Minksop. When Moriarty had threatened me, Sherlock had almost forced Lestrade to partner her and I together for my own safety. She was a bit of a gossip, but she means well, and we ended up staying friends.

"Donna!" I exclaimed, finding her in the break room munching on chips and reading a tabloid. She looked up from her magazine when I called her name, eyes widening when she recognized me.

"Mals!" she replied, putting her half-eaten chip back in the flimsy cardboard dish. "I heard that you were on sick leave—why are you here?"

"Sherlock and John have been taken hostage in Rotherhithe Tunnel," I said. "I'm going to get them back, but I need help."

"Oh, my God," Donna said, standing up. "Mals, I'm so sorry—"

"Can you come with me, Donna?" I interrupted. "I'm going ahead of the search party to scout the tunnel and see what I can find."

Donna gave a tiny nod. "Of course I'll come with you, Mals," she said. "You're my partner and friend. That's what partners and friends do."

My face broke its serious expression and formed into a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Donna," I said, throwing my arms around her in a brief hug. She squeezed me back reassuringly.

"I'm always here to help," she replied.

We separated, and the adrenaline started kicking up within both of us. "Go get a bulletproof vest," I said. "We've got a kidnapping to crash."

Donna and I were able to get a Yard vehicle and on the road fairly quickly, considering traffic was beginning to peak (but that siren on the top wasn't there for decoration). As I drove, Donna called the Tunnel operators and asked them to seal it off from traffic, but discreetly, so the lack of silence wouldn't alert the kidnappers. I dropped her off at one end and I drove around to the other, our intention to scout the tunnel from outside in so the kidnappers couldn't escape. I abandoned the automobile in a gravel lot beside the Tunnel and decided to proceed inside on foot—despite being sealed off, the Tunnel still had quite a bit of traffic, and I would cause a pileup if I was forced to park and leave the car. As Tunnel officials sealed of the entrance lane, I ducked under the traffic gate and proceeded inside, weaving in and out of static cars.

I drew my gun, made sure my badge was in sight on my belt, and flicked my ponytail out of my eyes, searching for the smallest sign of my friends: a scrap of leather elbow pad from a jacket, or a fallen navy scarf.

I heard it after about twenty minutes of fruitless searching: a loud, sharp gunshot, echoing off the walls of the submerged tunnel.

I abandoned all delusions of stealth and ran for the sound, hoping the kidnappers hadn't delivered on their vow.

I thanked God that it was close—a utility door which, under careful examination of the doorknob and floor, revealed that it had been used recently, even though it was extremely heavy and the hinges said it hadn't been used regularly in the last five years (thank you, Sherlock). I pulled the heavy door open and plunged inside, bringing my gun and torch up.

The first thing I saw was John strapped down to a hardbacked wooden chair, vivid red blood coating the side of his face.

"Mals!" he exclaimed, checking over his shoulder that the coast was clear. I swept the torch beam around the room—it was clear except for huge, bulky air ducts and iron water pipes. I hurried forward, holstered my gun, picked up a piece of sharp metal mesh, and began cutting the duct tape that bound John to his chair.

"Thank God I found you alone. There's a search party coming. What was the gunshot from?" I asked, urgently cutting through his restraints.

"Sherlock and I are alright, it was just one of the thugs firing his gun after it had gotten jammed. They left to go get rid of it and find a new one."

What's the head wound from?"

"Brick, I think," he replied. "They knocked me out on the way to the hospital."

"Where's Sherlock?" Silence. "John, _where's Sherlock?"_

"I haven't seen him at all," he answered. "Mals, I'm sorry. I've been in this room the entire time. I don't know where he is."

I forced down the bitter panic rising in my throat. "I'll find him as soon as I get you free. What do you know about the kidnappers?"

"Her name's Deborah Cartwright," he said. "That case we just closed last week with the gambler stealing from his daughter? She's the daughter. Her dad brainwashed her into thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread and she's doing this to avenge his arrest. She said she had collaborators—"

"Her brothers," I interrupted. "She mentioned them on the phone."

"But she also said she and her brothers had another partner who had thought up the whole plan."

"You're right. She said that, too. That he brought them the plan and they put it into action. Have you seen him?"

"No, Deborah and her thugs are the only people I've seen here. Where are we?"

"Rotherhithe Tunnel," a voice answered behind me. A bone-chillingly familiar voice, a voice that had invaded my nightmares, a voice that had taunted me as I lay handcuffed to a table under a bright stage light in an abandoned theatre.

Before I could think about it, I swiveled around, pulled out my gun, and pointed it at Jim Moriarty.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8- The Puppet Master's Plan

John

"I should've known it was you all along," Mallory said, her back to me and her gunpoint to Moriarty. "Kidnapped right out of our home, left cryptic notes, and playing 20 Questions over the phone? You told me once you didn't have a pattern, Jim, but you _do."_

"Thanks for letting me know, _Mallie_ dear," Moriarty taunted. Mallory just barely flinched when he used his nickname for her. Moriarty smiled. "Now I can break it."

"No, you won't," Mallory retorted. "You like the idea of us running around in fear of your notes too much."

Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "Well, you're right about that," he said, shifting his weight. Mallory's hands tensed upon her gun with his movement, and Moriarty's smile grew into a smirk. "Oh, would you really shoot me on the spot, Mallie girl? Wouldn't want to jeopardize your career as a sergeant any more, would you?"

"If it stops you from coming near us again, I'd give up my badge in a second," she promised. "But even if we lock you in a rubber room, you'd find some way to make us dance for you."

"The world is boring, Mallie," he said. "When the sludge of ordinary life catches up to you, you have to do something to humour yourself."

"And you certainly have a perverse sense of humour," she replied. "But enough small talk. _Where's Sherlock?"_

Suddenly, a red-haired woman burst through the door to a storage room, holding a gun and pointing at Mals. When Moriarty turned his head, I stretched my fingers to the metal mesh Mals had left stuck in my duct tape bonds and tried to saw through the rest without catching anyone's attention.

"You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Cartwright snarled at Mals. "Sergeant Hudson, am I right?"

"Officer of the Scotland Yard. Deborah Cartwright, I presume."

"Deborah Mattern, now."

"I believe we're missing one more member of the party, Debbie," Moriarty purred.

"Right you are," Mattern said. "Boys! Bring in our dear Mr. Holmes."

The storage door banged open again, and two beefy men struggled through it, dragging something heavy between them. My heart pounded in my chest as they dragged it over and dropped it at Mallory's feet, moaning and groaning.

It was Sherlock.

Mallory

"Sherlock," I whispered, my heart stopping.

The best thing I could say to describe his condition was that he was alive.

His face was all cut up and bruised, blood trickling from his split lip. He placed his long hands delicately over his ribs and winced—a few of them had to be bruised at least. His eyes finally caught mine, and they instantly grew _scared. _Why would he be scared? I was here to rescue him, he didn't have to—oh, that's why.

He didn't want me to relapse.

I clenched my jaw, hardened my face, and turned back to Moriarty and the Matterns.

"If you give yourselves up now, we could negotiate a lighter sentence," I offered.

"I think we all know that's out of the question," Moriarty said in that infuriatingly condescending tone. "They'll probably get, oh, ten years? Does that sound right, Mals?"

"'They'?" repeated Deborah. "What do you mean, 'they'? You're getting arrested along with all of us. If they _do _end up catching us." At the last bit, she shot a malicious glance my way.

"Oh, they'll catch you," Moriarty assured. "Despite everything I've told you about them, the one undoubtedly sure fact is that they're excellent detectives, and the only thing that could possibly thwart them is sheer dumb luck. Well, unless you're me. And seeing as you aren't, there seems to be a very good chance you'll be going to prison. I'd take up their offer—prison is not a fun place. I was in there for only three days and I lost about fifteen IQ points."

"So you're not even going to help us escape?" Deborah exclaimed, her gun arm lowering so it was pointing just at the bottom edge of my ribs.

"That's your plan," John said incredulously behind me. "That's the whole plan, isn't it? Use them to take us hostage, and if we end up arresting them, they can't come after you."

"Such an elegant way to tie up loose ends, don't you think?" Moriarty said, adding a little giggle at the end. _Psychopath._

Deborah was looking at Moriarty like she had finally seen him as the monster he is for the first time. "You _used _us," she snarled. "You played us like marionettes—like _we _played _them_!"

"That's what he does," Sherlock said, each labored word draining his energy. "He took advantage of your rage to suit his agenda. He exploits humanity's faults."

"I just exploit humanity, Sherlock," Moriarty said, kneeling down by Sherlock's head. "Haven't you ever wondered why I bothered to single you out, why you're the most fun to play? _Because you haven't got any._"

"He's more human than you'll ever be," I spat.

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Moriarty replied, glancing up at me. "He's got _you._"

"What's that supposed to mean?" John said defensively.

"Surely _you,_ Johnny boy, have seen it," Moriarty said, standing up. "Most of the time, he's cold, blunt, devoid of emotion. But then, dear, sweet _Mallory _makes an appearance, and he's suddenly the greatest boyfriend in the world!" His pitch rose as he gleefully strutted around Sherlock's broken form, his gestures growing more theatrical. "I mean, come _on_—cuddling, kissing, letting her take charge in bed? My dear Sherlock, she hasn't stolen your heart, she's practically _grown _you one, and it's turned you into a grade-A _fool!"_

"How the _hell_ did you know all that?" I yelled.

"I have my ways!" Moriarty shouted back.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, and damp flakes of plaster rained down from the ceiling. "Enough!" Deborah shouted, her gun pointing straight into the air. She brought her gun back down and pointed it—_at Moriarty._ "So you think you can one-up the Matterns, do you? You'll die like those other three! Ed! Roy!" She nodded toward the four of us. "Make sure none of them leave this room alive."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9- Going Out With a Bang

One of Deborah's beefy brothers was rugby-tackled to the ground the moment he took a step toward us. I glanced down and saw a blond-haired form struggling to hold our would-be attacker down, grey pieces of tape adorning the cuffs of his jacket.

_John, you bloody genius,_ I thought as the other brother started stomping forward. I put a bullet in his shoulder and he stumbled away. As soon as my bullet had hit, Moriarty began sprinting toward the door, leaving us in the dust.

"Coward!" I yelled to his retreating back. Deborah whirled around and shot Moriarty through the leg, sending him to the ground. When she made a break for him, I crouched down, slung my arms under Sherlock's and dragged him away from the main center of action and to a corner shielded by a great, metal duct.

Kneeling down, I pressed my gun into the palm of his limp hand, moulding his fingers around it like clay. "Stay here, shoot anyone who comes close to you," I whispered. I picked up an old, rusty iron pipe, jagged at one end, and held it in my right hand like a sword—it would work as well as one.

"Mallory," Sherlock whispered urgently, straining to get the words out. His empty hand grabbed my left wrist desperately. "Mallory, please, _get out of here._ Just run. Don't worry about John and I, just get to safety. Please, clear out. For my sake, if not your own." He was pleading with those big, sad eyes, and for once I could see real, blatant fear there, fear for my safety.

I gently pressed my lips to his forehead, his grip loosening on my wrist. "John needs me," I said. "You need me. I'm not abandoning you. It's not like I'm going to war or anything." I pulled my wrist out of his hand and looked deep into those clear green eyes. "I love you," I said. "I'll be right back."

"Mallory, no!" I stood up, ignoring his protests, and plunged back into the fight.

John was in the middle of the brawl, fighting off both Brothers Goon. I hurled myself at the one at the top of the pile and dragged him off, both of us rolling over the floor. We both landed face up, his heavyset body crushing mine and nearly causing me to let go of the pipe in my hand. Thinking quickly, I brought the pipe up to the man's neck and grabbed at the other end, cutting my hand in the process, and pressed it into his throat, choking the life out of him. He struggled and struggled against the pipe, trying to dislodge it, but I thought of how he'd hurt Sherlock and made him weaker than a newborn kitten, and my grip never failed. When he finally went limp, I released my hold on his neck and crawled out from under him with difficulty. Just when I was properly able to take a breath again, John looked up from his brawler, whom he currently had in a half-nelson. Our eyes connected for only half a second before I knew what I had to do.

I ran over and brought the pipe down on the goon's head, knocking him out cold.

John

The man collapsed and I untangled myself from him, reaching up to Mals' extended hand and hauling myself up.

"Thanks for that," I said, slightly out of breath.

"No problem," she replied. We turned and looked for Moriarty and Deborah, but they had both disappeared. Mals ran out to the entrance of the utility room, but they were nowhere in sight in the now-desolate tunnel. "Moriarty! Mattern!" I could hear her yell. "Show yourself!" No answer.

"You alright, man?" I asked, kneeling down to examine Sherlock. He groaned.

"Where's Mallory?" he asked agitatedly, looking around urgently.

"She's in the Tunnel, looking for Moriarty," I answered, dragging his arm around my shoulders and getting ready to stand him up. "Mals! Get in here, Sherlock's too heavy for me alone!"

Hurried footsteps, and then Mals was beside us, Sherlock's other arm around her shoulder. Sherlock leaned heavily on us and we supported him through the short corridor. Just at the edge of the corridor, I heard a noise like a shoe scraping wet concrete and I craned my neck around.

Mallory's opponent had woken up and was just pulling the pin out of a hand grenade.

"Run!" I hollered. Mallory swiveled her head around to see what the matter was while trying to drag Sherlock along faster. I ripped Mals' gun out of Sherlock's hand and spun out from under his arm, leaving Mals to cope with the extra weight. I'd only have one chance to do this, and I'd need to be as freed-up as possible.

The Mattern brother smiled maliciously and threw the grenade at the three of us.

Quick as lightning, I cocked the gun, brought it up, and shot the grenade half a second after it left the brother's hand.

The force of the explosion threw me completely into Rotherhithe Tunnel and seared any of my exposed skin. There was the sound of concrete shattering and the sonic boom, and all I could see was falling debris and smoke. I landed sprawled on my back and the gun clattered away from my hand, spinning away into the fog. When the dust settled, the first thing I saw was a giant hole blown in the tunnel wall where the door used to be. The room it led to was destroyed, and the brothers inside blown to smithereens. Slowly, achingly, I rolled over onto my side and propped myself up, looking for some sign of my friends.

The first person I saw was Sherlock. He landed on his stomach but was slowly drawing himself onto his hands and knees, coughing and spitting up traces of blood.

"What…the _hell_…did you do?" he spluttered.

"Saved your arse, that's what."

"Mallory—where is she?" Together, we crawled laboriously through the shrapnel, searching for the friend that had come to save us.

We found her a few moments later.

She had also landed on her stomach, her arms bent and extended above her head. Her legs were twisted like a rag doll's. She was unconscious.

"Mallory!" Sherlock exclaimed, struggling more fiercely towards her. We rolled her onto her back and Sherlock pulled her into his lap, cradling her close to his chest. Suddenly, Mals gave a great, rattling gasp and her eyes blinked open irritably, as if we had woken her from a nap.

"What are you all looking at _me,_ for?" she said, trying to catch her breath. "You were the ones that got yourselves kidnapped and tortured. Why on Earth are you crying over me?"

Relieved, Sherlock kissed her forehead dazedly and hugged her close to his body, burying her face in his shoulder. She flung her arms around his neck and held herself up until she caught sight of me.

"John!" she exclaimed faintly. "You survived, too, then?"

I shrugged.

She waved me over. "Get over here."

I lumbered over and embraced Mals, realizing just now how afraid I had been that she wouldn't be alright. I hugged her tightly, my muscles unwilling to let her go. She didn't seem to want to, either.

"Promise me something, boys," she said once we'd let each other go. "Don't go working cases that have brainwashed, psychotic daughters involved for a while, alright?"

I laughed. Even after we just barely escaped kidnapping, she still saw fit to make jokes. Good old Mals.

"We promise," Sherlock vowed, catching her up in a hug again as police sirens began faintly echoing off the tunnel walls.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10- You Make Me Better

Mallory

I sat next to Sherlock's bed in St. Bart's Hospital, absently running my fingernails over the stitches in my right hand. After I'd grabbed the broken edge of the pipe, I'd managed to slice my palm open pretty badly, but it was quickly resolved with eight stitches. In fact, I was the one who'd gotten out of Rotherhithe Tunnel in the best shape: John had suffered a concussion, and Sherlock had sustained too many bruises and breaks to count, plus some internal bleeding. They'd rushed him into X-rays as soon as we got to St. Bart's, and from there into the operating room. He was sleeping off the anesthesia now. John, after staying for about an hour, had gone home to get some rest, promising to come back as soon as he was well again. There have been a few familiar faces who've stopped in to visit: Molly, to check his medication, hear the full story, and offer many words of comfort; Donna, to ask what the hell I'd done after I dropped her off at the other end of the Tunnel and to help keep up Sherlock's vigil; and Lestrade, for a complete debriefing and to tell me that it looked like we were in the clear, as far as Internal Affairs was concerned.

"Of course, they might not see Sherlock's disappearance as a national emergency," he said, "but they'll be too proud of his dramatic rescue to mar the story with those ugly details. Nah, they won't raise a fuss if the story makes the Yard look good."

"The Tunnel didn't flood, did it?" I asked. "It runs under the Thames and we set a grenade off inside it."

"Clearly, you have little faith in London's architects," Lestrade replied. "The Tunnel held up, but still—don't go setting off grenades in submerged traffic tunnels anymore." He stood up and patted my shoulder bracingly, glancing out the window. "The sun's gone down, Hudson. You can't stay here forever. Get home soon, and _safe, _okay? You've still got a week left of sick leave."

"Yes, sir," I promised. Lestrade nodded at me and left, leaving me alone with a sleeping Sherlock. I leaned forward, wrapped my hands around his left one, and waited for him to wake up, falling asleep in the process.

I was suddenly woken up when someone yanked my chair backward, tipping it and me onto the floor. The wooden back crashed against the linoleum and knocked the wind out of me, and I tried to roll onto all fours, but the sole of a stiletto-heeled boot appeared upon my throat, crushing my windpipe.

I recognized my attacker by the light of Sherlock's monitors. Pieces of her red bun were falling out, and her purple business suit ripped and dirty, but it was definitely her: Deborah Mattern.

And she looked as angry as a bull.

"Sergeant Hudson, caught off guard? Seems like the stuff of legend," she whispered threateningly. Still waking up, I struggled against her boot, thankful that the heel had missed my jugular. "Screwing with your friends has been divine, but killing you right in front of your cyborg boy-toy is going to be a privilege."

I grabbed her heel and tried to drag her boot off my throat, but I only succeeded in snapping the heel clean off. Not one to be easily discouraged, Mattern shoved the entirety of her boot onto my throat, enjoying my agony. My confusion and her rage gave her the upper hand, and soon enough, black spots were teasing the edges of my vision.

"You killed my brothers," she snarled as my struggles against her vengeance grew weaker. "You know I'm a vengeful woman, Hudson. What do you think it would take for me to stop?"

Suddenly, a bare arm wrapped around her middle and yanked Mattern backwards, the pressure of her boot on my throat easing up. As I took a great, rasping breath and rubbed my throat, I watched Mattern's face go from angry to scared as a pale hand holding a huge, needled syringe suddenly appeared and stabbed the needle into the side of her neck.

I crawled away, keeping one hand on my now-bruised throat, as Deborah Mattern's limp body fell to the floor. Behind her, clutching the bloody needle in his hand and breathing heavily, stood Sherlock.

"Well, it's all over," I said hoarsely, sitting down at Sherlock's bedside. "Her body's cleaned up, I've been debriefed, and you're cleared of all charges." I took a sip of my tea. "Thanks for that."

"No problem," Sherlock replied, fidgeting uncomfortably against his restraints. "Why do they have to tie me down?"

"You did just kill a woman," I answered. "I don't think they want to take any chances. How on Earth did you manage to wake up just in time?"

"I had burned up the anesthesia mostly, and I was just sleeping by then," Sherlock said. "The sound of your chair hitting the floor was sufficient enough to wake me up."

"Where did you get the syringe?"

He shifted his left arm. "It was close by."

Suspicious, I set my Styrofoam cup on the hospital tray table and reached across the bed to his left arm, twisting it so the wrist was facing up. In the center of his forearm was a ragged, bloody hole.

Right where a syringe would've been.

_"You ripped it out of your own arm?_ Sherlock, are you insane?"

"You were about to be killed, I couldn't dawdle!" he retorted. "I thought of something quickly, and I acted! If I hadn't, you'd be dead instead of her." He looked away from me. "I couldn't stand the thought."

Why did he have to be so self-destructive and so romantic at the same time? The tension drained out of my shoulders as I said, "Please don't do it again, okay?" I leaned down to gently kiss him and sat back down, resolving to keep a closer eye on him.

"By the way, I had us both checked out for STDs," I said. "They took some of your blood while you were asleep. We're both clean, and I'm not pregnant." That incredible night we shared seemed so long ago after everything that's happened.

"Right," he said absently.

"I brought some cold case files for you, to relieve the boredom," I said. "Since your hands are literally tied I guess I'll read them to you?" When he didn't answer, I shrugged and opened the first file. "Evan Burke—"

"He was right," Sherlock interrupted. "Moriarty. He was right."

I closed the file and stared at him. "What medications do they have you on?" I asked. "Sherlock, since when is Moriarty right about anything? He's _insane!"_

"He said I was becoming more emotional, more sentimental," he replied. "He was right. I _am_ more emotional, and now my emotions are influencing my actions. If I weren't so panicked for your safety, I could've probably found a way to keep both you and Mattern alive. I was so scared that I did the first thing I thought of, not the most logical. And as a result, Mattern ended up dead."

How could Sherlock think emotions were a _bad _thing? Was this honestly how he went through the day, divorcing himself from emotions in favor of logic? I had to turn this around, _now._

"Sherlock," I began hesitantly. "Can you think of _any _possible way Mattern could've come out of that alive?"

His eyes darted from side to side as he calculated Mattern's odds of survival. "…No," he answered.

"So why are you beating yourself up?" I said, scooting my chair closer.

"Because what if I take another life when they could be spared?"

"Sherlock, you protect people for a living. Do you really think you'd take someone's life if it couldn't be avoided?" Finally, he looked at me, and I packed as much meaning into my gaze as I could. "Sherlock, feeling emotion isn't a weakness; in fact, it's strength. Remember on the Irene Adler case, when my mum was attacked? You tossed a U.S. government official out the window multiple times because of what my mum meant to you. That act sent a message to the people on Irene's trail and Irene herself—not to mess with us. And look at that: _they didn't._ When we first met Moriarty and he sent us those puzzles to solve in exchange for the lives of hostages, you cared enough about the hostages to solve the puzzles and save them. You saved the little kid in _nine seconds!_ If I was in your position, I would've thrown up from the pressure." I curled my hands around one of his, squeezing it comfortingly. "It's okay to care, Sherlock. You always have. Your emotions are just manifesting more often nowadays—"

"Because of you," he interrupted, with a look of genuine surprise on his face. He must've just realized. "Moriarty was right on that aspect. I'd noticed, and I'd been wondering about that for a while."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. Where on Earth was he going with this?

"I don't know what it is, but there's something about you that just…_changes _me," he said. "Because of you, I care more about the outcome of a case. I care more about making sure the wrongdoer atones instead of just getting him off the streets. I don't understand it…but I like it. It feels nice. It's okay with me that Moriarty was right just this once—in fact, I'm glad. You make me more human."

Tears were welling up in my eyes. Sherlock said he was more human because of me—if that's not the highest praise anyone can receive, I don't know what is. "My little human," I said. "I don't care _what _you say; you're a womanizer if I've ever seen one." He chuckled. "Thank you, Sherlock," I said, standing up to kiss him on the lips, mumbling, "I love you," against them.

When I sat back down, I came to a realization somewhat similar to his. "You make me better, too," I said. His eyebrows briefly knitted together in confusion. "When _I'm _working cases, I try to get inside the insane mess that is your brain and look at a crime scene through your eyes. I try to catalogue every little detail and analyze them as objectively as I can, like you would. And it works most of the time."

"My lovely detective," he said endearingly (or as endearingly as Sherlock could get).

"We make quite a pair, don't we?" I said, my voice shaky.

"John once called us a dream team," he replied lovingly.

"Oh, my God," I said. "John doesn't know about Mattern. I haven't even called him yet!" I fished around in my pocket for my mobile and stood up. "I'll just call him, see if he's awake," I said. "Then we can get back to the teary rom-com." I bent over to kiss him again and left the room, a few tears still in my eye.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue- Homecoming

We sat in my flat, curled up and with the fire roaring in the fireplace. It was another chilly February day, and we were just taking a few hours to spend time together (translation: John and I were relieving Sherlock's boredom before he destroyed the entire street). We were playing poker in my sitting room using a deck of cards I bought from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, much to Sherlock's annoyance and John's amusement. John sat in my usual armchair and Sherlock and I were on my sofa. He sat up properly while I lounged lazily across all the cushions, my knees thrown over his lap. John was so proud that Sherlock had finally given in and allowed me to cuddle with him. It was about, oh, two weeks since my boys had gotten themselves kidnapped, and we were all on the fast track to recovery. By re-traumatizing myself, I kicked the ASD and John made it official, so I was back where I belonged: in Scotland Yard. John, after hearty congratulations for the fantastic aiming that blew the grenade and saved our lives, wrote the whole case down on his blog and dubbed it, "Keeping Up With the Matterns." Sherlock had rebounded from nearly getting beaten to death incredibly quickly: in fact, he was demanding to be released from the hospital the next day, but we kept him in there for another week. Now we were all gambling with cheese curls and relaxing the day away, thankful for once there wasn't a case to occupy our time.

Just as I laid down a four-of-a-kind, the sound of the front door being unlocked and opening floated into my flat. I began moving to answer the door, but before I could leave the sofa I felt Sherlock casting his arm before my waist, and I glanced up at him quickly enough to see him catch John's eye and jerk his head in the direction of the door—clearly, he remembered what happened the last time I'd gone to answer the door alone. I would've rolled my eyes if I wasn't so curious about our unidentified guest. John got up and went to answer the door with his shoulders set and hand curling into a fist if the occasion rose, but as soon as he disappeared into the front hall it became apparent that our worries were baseless.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he greeted warmly. "You're back!"

"John!" At long last, the sound of my mother's voice floated through the flat and seemed to make the entirety of Baker Street brighter. I glanced at Sherlock with a smile on my face and got up quickly, eager to see my mother.

"Mum!"

"Mals!" We hugged in the middle of the front hall, overjoyed. We hadn't seen each other in six weeks; while the three of us were off overcoming mental disorders and being tortured by angry daughters, she's been floating around the Arctic Ocean with mates from university.

We separated, and then Sherlock stepped up for his turn. "Sherlock!" she said in that motherly way of hers, hugging him as warmly as a mother would. Yes, the Baker Street occupants were all properly together again—we weren't oceans away or fighting inner demons anymore, we were just us.

After we unloaded all her bags and brewed all of us a pot of tea, we sat down again in my sitting room (though this time, Sherlock and I remained confined to our own cushions—Mum wasn't ready to see Sherlock's capacity to cuddle). Our cards lay abandoned on the table as the four of us settled in to start catching up.

"Well then," Mum said, pulling her cardigan closer around her, "I've been gone for six weeks and haven't heard a peep from any of you. You must've gotten up to something while I was gone."

John let out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock looked at me with one eyebrow raised and a corner of his mouth listed in a slight smirk. I pressed my lips together into a taut line. We were all thinking the same thing: her reaction when we told her what we've been doing was going to be _priceless._

"Better get comfy, Mum," I said, propping my fluffy sock-clad feet up on my coffee table as Sherlock's arm fell across the back of the sofa. "We have _loads_ to tell you."


End file.
